Chapter 3
The facility was composed of three buildings. The bulk of the research was military, but there was the psi-clinic across the grounds. Next to that, there’s a office building where management hides out when not interfering.
I’d left my coat in the main building and had to face the winter air in only a thin shirt as I crossed the grounds to the psi-clinic. England was frozen over; a sign of things to come.
The psi-clinic was a busy place, focused mainly on medical research. Telepathically convincing a duck with a chicken's brain that it was a goose; that one caught the bloggers imagination. It also housed the facility’s cafeteria, though I tended to eat in the Lab with Haggis. He didn't like the cafeteria. A mixture of too many telepaths and too many stuck up researchers.
As I waited for my name to be called for the telepath booth, I joined the queue in the cafeteria. You’d normally find at least a few people here during working hours. Many people liked to discuss the direction of their research over doughnuts.
I wondered what the company’s culture would be like in London. The London building was the public face of Granny labs. Most of the research took place here, in Birmingham, but clients would never be granted access to this austere research facility.
I ordered a cup of tea and a cookie, and sat down by the nearest free table. A group of about eight people were sat nearby eating buns and drinking coffee. They discussed a contract to develop a telepathy suppressor device for highly sensitive facilities.
It was discovered years ago that Ubictol, a drug designed to relieve the symptoms of irritable bowel syndrome, had the side effect of suppressing an individual's telepathy.
I could make out the bulk of their conversation quite clearly. They were speculating about the safety and legal implications of creating an airborne variation; a product which could then be distributed via a building's ventilation system, in the event of a high security location becoming compromised. If I were a spy the cafeteria would be the ideal place to eavesdrop.
I dipped my cookie into my tea and ate it. What would my report tell me. That I look at the soles of people’s feet? Well, I knew that. I was also embarrassed by it.
I slowly drank my tea as the time ticked by. After I emptied the cup, I made my way over to the waiting room and parked myself centrally amongst the largely empty rows of benches.
I didn't have a long wait. Somebody called my name and I walked into the darkened confines of a telepath booth. I shuffled onto the hard, perforated, metal seat, and faced the glass screen. My telepath would be waiting - concealed.
I waited a moment staring at my reflection in the glass. I was very skinny back then. All bone. In the gloom I looked gaunt and ill. My curly hair was cut short and managed. My metabolism has changed a great deal since then, but now I’ve become far less concerned about my appearance.
A dim light appeared behind the screen. The reflection of my face vanished and the humanoid form of my telepath come into view. The heat washed over me. Nothing uncomfortable - a warm glow spread across the surface of my face, prickling the skin.
“Hello," I said, "I may be getting transferred to London. I was wondering if you could give me a full report, if it helps me demonstrate my suitability.”
There was a silence. I glanced down at the metal grill which housed the speaker. It released a crackle and a hum.
“You drove your mother away,” it coughed in a distorted voice.
I paused, looking up at where I supposed the telepaths eyes should be. I felt unsure how to react. Outrage?
“That's not what I'm here to ask about,” I said, trying to brush the accusation aside.
“It is what's on your mind isn’t it? You didn't want to. At only eight years old, you can hardly blame yourself.”
Composing myself, I asked him if I was really that bad. I suspected that he could only sense some irrational guilt - remnants left over from childhood.
"I'm telling you what you need to know. Do you want a complete report or an in depth report. A complete report includes a great deal that people will struggle to understand."
"What does an in depth report say?"
"I don't believe in depth. When it comes to the core of the human mind, it all breaks down into happy, sad and crazy. You're a good balance. Would you like the report to say that? That you're balanced?"
I said, “Yes.”
"Good. Then that's all I'll say. I strongly disapprove of our service being used this way. It creates a bad precedent - putting people under pressure to disclose personal details like this - for their careers. A non-telepath would be unable to understand the full context. Laid out bare, everyone looks crazy."
Despite his harshness, I felt some relief over this. I wanted telepaths, above all people, to be concerned about privacy; although, a part of me wondered if it was his way of protecting me from an embarrassing report. How could I have thought that a complete telepathic report on my mental state could possibly have made me look good.
I now regret not asking more about my mother and my feelings towards her. I understand how distorted a telepath’s perspective is, but it would have given me something to piece together. It's different now. I don't feel the same way as I did back then.
The telepath passed a signed printout through a slit. It was too dark to read anything in the small cubital, so I folded it, put it in my pocket, thanked him and left.
Walking through the waiting room and into the foyer. I pulled the printout from my pocket and unfolded it.
‘Report on subject, Ernum Gustabler: After years of thorough telepathic scanning, I can testify that the subject is mentally balanced.’
It was signed A.W. Those initials were all I had of my telepath’s name. I wouldn’t have be surprised if it bore no correlation to his true name. It didn't seem much more useful than a regular report which would simply say, 'clear'. I wondered how easy it would be to fake such a printout. Not that it would be worth the risk.
I went to see Haggis on the second floor of the facility’s main building, before I left - I’d left my coat there. He'd filled the test lab with smoke and had been testing the sensor we’d been working on. Bodies, twisted and frozen, swept over the tables and chairs - contorted figures, the colour of milky tea, could be seen clutching at their severed limbs from through the haze.
Haggis’s stylised vision of war played out in a mannequin genocide. He stood hunched by a workbench, gas mask over his face. Walking into the scene unprepared, I helped myself to a lung full of smoke.
"Hey, Haggis," I said, coughing.
“Hey, how did it go?” came the muffled response. He hit the ventilator switch and the smoke began to clear, unveiling his set.
I told him that it went well and that I had to head off to London for a few days.
He nodded, Collins would have kept him informed of everything. He ruffled his hair as he pulled the gas mask from his face. His cheeks were bright red and covered in sweat.
Spotting me looking for my coat, he said, "I moved it into the side room."
I walked through and spotted it on the desk. He stretched his eye’s open with a look of self satisfaction; he wanted me to comment on his little artistic display with the mannequins - I could tell.
“I went to talk to my telepath," I said, putting on my orange woolen coat, "He disapproves of scans being used to aid careers.”
“I can understand that. Did you get what you wanted from him, anyway?”
“He says that I’m balanced.”
“He’s lying for you then,” Haggis said, giving a little snigger.
“Yes,” I replied. I decided I wasn’t going to ask him about his little art project.
“I wouldn’t worry about telepaths. They tend to only see the negative. It’s a very flawed ability, possibly warped by their own subjective outlook. There may be scientific proof of telepathy but there’s no proof that what they detect is accurate.”
“They wield a lot of influence.”
“P
ossibly less than you think. It’ll never be allowed in court. I wonder how much is just for show. To keep us from thinking we'd get away with misbehaving. Sometimes, I wish I was doing the research on them.” He pried open the prototype scanner he’d been working on with a screwdriver and adjusted the tension of a screw. “I’ve had some interesting conversations with people from the psi-clinic. The truth about telepathy could be within their grasp. It could be very interesting.”
“They don’t do scans in London. I might be free of it all.”
“I hope it stays that way, for your sake. They’re talking about sending the telepaths on monthly visits there. None of us are free.”
I said, “I’ll see you later,” and he wished me luck; then I made my way to the exit.